


Under the Mistletoe

by TheBraillebarian



Series: A Very Metal Christmas [2]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, Mistletoe, Office Sex, Trans Male Character, Trans Pickles the Drummer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28067217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraillebarian/pseuds/TheBraillebarian
Summary: Things get out of hand when Pickles spots some mistletoe hanging around Mordhaus.
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Pickles the Drummer
Series: A Very Metal Christmas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055693
Comments: 9
Kudos: 14





	Under the Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Dethmas day 2: Kissing under the mistletoe! And maybe also office party? Are two people a party?
> 
> Thank you Ash for beta reading the first draft!

“Aww, shit. Who put that there?”  
  


Pickles elbows Charles as they pause in a gloomy corridor. He points to a tangle of green wrapped in ribbon dangling over their heads. It's probably one of Murderface's hopeful schemes, or they've stumbled upon one of Skwisgaar's many, many happy holiday corners. Maybe he should burn this pair of shoes later.  
  


Suddenly his feet are out from under him, an arm catching his back. Pickles scrambles for purchase and clutches at Charles' lapels. His arms strain to pull him up, heart pounding with the adrenaline rush. Lips press firm against his mouth, hot, spiced with brandy and coffee. A firm hand steadies his waist and Pickles' straining grasp turns to a savage pull. He lets his weight fall while deepening the kiss, tongue working past sharp teeth to get at that bitter savory taste. The faintest sound of desire rewards his advance. Charles' glasses are askew when he pulls away.  
  


“Yah kicked me,” Pickles' face is flushed a bright pink. “Asshole.”  
  


“My apologies. My foot must have, ah. Slipped.”  
  


“Dunno if I can stand. Might need ta be carried to bed.”  
  


“I will drop you right here.”  
  


The grip on gray lapels shifts, green eyes suddenly alight with wicked intent. “Don't make me drag you down with me, chief.”  
  


For a moment it looks like Charles is considering the threat. “There's an ancillary office two doors from here. Perhaps I can, ah, take a look. If you think you can make it that far.” He squeezes the flesh under his palm.  
  


“Oh, I dunno,” Pickles swoons, grinning, pointedly tangling one loose foot between Charles’ ankles.  
  


“I see. Well. We'd better get you off your feet then.”  
  


Seemingly with no effort he swings Pickles into his arms. They're roughly the same height but there's a strength about Charles that never fails to take the other man's breath away. He covers his gasp of surprise with a salacious chuckle.   
  


“Aww, you care,” he flops an arm over broad shoulders and pinches an ear lobe between his teeth.  
  


The body holding him aloft shivers, almost misses a hurried step. When they cross the office threshold Charles kicks the door shut and practically throws his burden on the polished oak desk. Pickles wraps his legs around the man's ribs while teeth press against his neck.  
  


“You,” Charles growls, “are a menace.”  
  


Warm hands claw at the waistband of his pants. “I didn't kick nobody. This time.”  
  


He slides a hand down to palm at the tent in Charles' dress slacks. Fingers deftly loosen belt, button, and fly to coax out what's straining to be free. Kisses pepper the hollow of his throat as he slides a thumb over the tip.   
  


“Oh, hey,” Pickles says with a laugh. “Would yah look at that.”  
  


Charles' hips twitch toward the hand holding him as he looks up at the bundle of mistletoe hanging over the desk. Pickles leans in for a kiss only for his partner to duck away.  
  


“Chief?”  
  


Hands yank at his pants and briefs simultaneously, his ass suddenly resting on polished wood. “Leg injuries should be elevated.”  
  


Faster than Pickles can follow, Charles has his sneaker clad feet resting over his shoulders, black pants around his ankles.   
  


“Yah know I was kinda bullshittin' yah back there, right?” A finger presses to his lips.  
  


There's a wicked glint in the eyes behind those glasses. “I believe couples are supposed to kiss under the mistletoe.”  
  


Before Pickles can say anything else, a hot mouth is wrapped around his dick. He lets out a wheeze and digs his fingers into brown hair. Charles licks every drop of need from him before it can stain the desk. Tongue working his dick, he slides two fingers inside to put pressure on that perfect spot. Between the exacting strokes without and the friction within, Pickles is a tight coil of want curling over his back.  
  


“Charlie, gahd, fuck!” he gasps.  
  


The man is relentless and keeps rhythm like a metronome. He ignores the blunted nails digging at his shoulders and the fingers pulling his hair. Pickles is reduced to want building in his guts, every breath ending on a whimper. Suddenly he goes quiet, body seizing, thighs tight. He shivers through a wave of euphoria that whites out his senses, teeth clenched. He comes to with the gasp of a drowning man, lungs remembering to work, body quivering around the fingers holding their place inside. Charles doesn't move until Pickles goes boneless, flopping graceless onto the desk.  
  


“I really can't get up nao,” he groans.  
  


“I'm sure that won't be a problem,” Charles' chin is wet, neat hair ruffled, cheeks dusted pink.  
  


“Yer cute when yer a mess,” Pickles crooks a finger at him.   
  


Their lips meet at the crossroads of languid and hungry. The taste of himself on Charles' tongue makes Pickles giddy. He slides one hand up to cup the man's cheek, the other to guide his dick where they both want it to be. Somehow Charles has put a condom on without Pickles knowing when or even where the thing came from. It's like a magic trick and someday he's going to ask how it's done. Right now he just wants them slotted together like matching puzzle pieces. Charles sucks in a breath, eyes squeezed shut, the hands on either side of Pickles' head shaking as he slides home.   
  


“Mmm, that's what I like to see,” Pickles strokes a piece of brown hair back behind an ear and bucks his hips.   
  


Much like himself, Charles' focus seems to narrow to the place where their hips meet. Pickles bites his tongue and concentrates on the rhythm, hands only moving from their steadying presence on his shoulders to catch the glasses sliding down his nose with sweat. He perches the frames on top of his head and feels the heat slowly kindling in him again. Charles is hitting some pretty sweet spots, every thrust pushing deeper until the wet sounds of their bodies in motion are joined by the slap of skin on skin. Charles is breathing hard through his nose, lower lip clenched tight between his teeth. Pickles can feel the man shivering with combined exertion and want.  
  


“Come ahn, Charlie,” he growls. “Do it.”  
  


With a jerk and the closest thing to a scream he's ever heard from the man, Charles unravels above him. He twitches like a wounded animal, face slack. Pickles can feel his heart hammering where they're joined, fluttering between body spasms. Gasping a whimper, Charles sinks down to quiver in the arms that wrap around him. Pickles absently cards a hand through his hair.  
  


“I think,” Charles mumbles into his neck, “you, ah, may need to carry me next.”  
  


Pickles laughs. “Think I'll pass on spendin' Christmas in the hospital.”  
  


They untangle reluctantly to make use of Charles' always present supply of wet wipes. By the time Pickles wrestles his pants back up, the other man looks as put together as ever. Another magic trick. One of these days he's going to figure out how to ruin that one. He kicks his dangling feet against the desk with a hollow thunk.  
  


“Hey. Come 'ere for a sec.”  
  


Charles steps close enough to be led into a soft, slow kiss. He folds his arms over Pickles' shoulders and they breathe together.   
  


“What was that for?” Charles asks when they part.  
  


Pickles shrugs. “Still under the mistletoe. Didn't wanna let ya go.”  
  


Shaking his suit sleeve down to check his watch Charles says, “There's, ah, nothing important I need to do at the moment.”  
  


“Now who's bullshittin'?”  
  


“Nothing more important than this,” he leans in. 

**Author's Note:**

> I yell about this show and sometimes post art at [metalrat](http://metalrat.tumblr.com).


End file.
